Marion pushed her way nearer as the crack widened and the wet moth began to work its way out. The head, the bedraggled antennae; the front legs and then the bulge of the damply furred back; soon the entire moth emerged, tottered over to climb the twig Henrietta had stuck in the dirt and, clinging head upward, began to unfold its wings. So pink, so yellow! Marion smiled as if presented with the little peony the moth resembled and watched without speaking as the fluid pumping through the veins began to expand the crumpled membranes.

Clover and Emily timed the stages and took notes; Franklin sketched several views of the process; James remembered to check the other pupae and was rewarded by spotting a second one beginning to eclose. Marion continued to watch the first moth, which grew lovelier by the minute, with an interest that pleased Henrietta until Clover raised her head, looked past Henrietta’s shoulder, and said, in a startled voice, “Should she be doing that?”

Henrietta turned to follow Clover’s gaze and then with two quick strides reached Elaine’s empty box. Bent stomach-down over Caroline’s knees, Elaine lay quite still, neither crying nor squirming: such a good baby, always. Caroline—where had she gotten scissors?—was using one hand to press down the back of Elaine’s head and the other to control the sharp blades. The top blade, pointed toward Elaine’s feet, was visible above the cotton blanket enclosing her; the other was under—oh, let it only be under the blanket and the dress!

Henrietta slid the scissors out, dropped them to the floor, and then seized Elaine and parted the cut fabric. A scratch ran from the base of the baby’s neck a few inches along her spine, not all the way through the skin except in one place, about an inch down, which oozed a bright drop of blood. When Henrietta pressed the tip of her finger there, Elaine finally wailed. Only then did Henrietta let herself look at Caroline.

“What—?” Henrietta said. She was breathing so quickly she thought she might faint. “What—?”

Caroline stood up. “I was turning her,” she explained patiently. Bending down, she reached for the scissors—but there was Marion, knocking Caroline’s arm away. She seized the scissors herself, she closed the blades. She held the instrument by the points, looking as if she wished it were a stiletto.

“Why do you always—?” she said to her sister.

As calmly as she could, Henrietta told her to sit with the others. Then she said, to Caroline, “What do you mean, ‘turning her’?”